Fluids
by purplecleric
Summary: "Gee, I need a hankie." The familiar story told in unseen moments, all guest starring a square of white cotton...
1. Oil

"Major Case?"

The voice comes deep from the bowels of the engine, head buried under the hood, slim legs straining on tip toe, just trying to reach a little further... Watching from his vantage point, perched on the work bench, it is like the Corvette is swallowing his friend whole.

Taking pity, he goes over and his height, his long arm reaches with ease what Lewis has been struggling with.

"Yeah, Monday at One Police Plaza...ah...got it." His dextrous fingers feel around, discover the silky slip of oil. "There's a leak in the hose, gonna have ta replace it." He winces at the Brooklyn twang, strengthened by a nostalgic afternoon sharing beer and shooting the breeze with his buddy.

"Crap!" But the word does not match the sentiment; he watches Lewis's face brighten with the anticipation of an evening of wrench wrestling. "That's the serious stuff, right? Politics and VIPS, fancy pads and Fortune 500's?" Lewis's grin takes on a devilish edge. "Are you sure they've not screwed up? Got the wrong department?"

He rises to the friendly taunt, giving Lewis a playful shove and chuckles as he watches the exaggerated stumble.

"Don't think I'm good enough, huh?"

The counterattack comes hard, fast and low as Lewis cannonballs into his stomach, his smaller frame packed with a wiry strength. They tussle: decades stripped away as once again they are youngsters scrapping in the schoolyard. Laughing, breathless, they break apart and he is struck by a moment of sadness as he remembers more serious fights; beatings they had endured, how they had bonded through the shared experience of being bullied outcasts.

As if sensing his change of mood, Lewis brings his thoughts back to the present.

"I know you've got the brains, and hell, you've never lacked the balls. But well, look at yourself, my man..."

And he does. Looks at the frayed and filthy jeans, stained boots, faded black tee failing to conceal smears of grease. Feels the long curls at the back of his neck and cannot remember when he had last had a haircut, or a shave...

"Well, I guess a makeover is in order." As if subconsciously eager to start the process, he draws a grey rumpled rag of a hankie from his pocket and begins to wipe his hands.

"Nah, it's not that, Bobby. You've always scrubbed up well. It's just that you're not one for pussyfooting around. You get tunnel vision and just trample all over people and you're... well... you know... a little odd." Lewis pretends to be busy sorting spanners, lets the words hang in the air.

He does know. They both know the difficulties of being different. He was a nerd trapped in a jock's body just as geeky Lewis was drawn to the macho world of mechanics. It was as if they had fallen prey to some deranged body swapping experiment, forever doomed to battle against stereotype.

Feeling a surge of affection for his similarly beleaguered friend, he acknowledges the expression of concern with a gentle nudge and a smile.

"It'll be okay, Lewis." His words are soft, and now he experiences an urge to shake off the sombre, serious tone that is developing. Turning thoughts into action, shoulders moving in an exaggerated shrug, he paces and raises his voice.

"I'll have a partner, you know. Some case hardened hack who'll keep me in line, between the donuts and the restroom breaks for his failing prostate."

Lewis laughs, his relief at the change of mood evident.

"Nah, it'll be some cute chick with a sense of humour and no tolerance for bullshit."

"You know your problem, Lewis? You live in a fantasy world..."

Smiling, he turns his attention back to the neglected car. His mind is already working on the problem of extracting the faulty hose and he is only half listening as Lewis regales him with even more wilder and improbable fantasies.


	2. Coffee

"Welcome aboard."

Captain Deakins's words are delivered with warmth, a smile and a blue eyed twinkle. Bobby decides he likes this man; there is a sense of quiet authority tempered with humour about him.

"Detective Eames, your partner, is in court, won't be back til later. I'll introduce you then. In the meantime, I've left some reading material on your desk."

So now his partner has a name and he has a desk.

Lewis was wrong, it is not all pussyfooting and politics. Not today. Today it is paperwork, a pile of policies and procedures. Too many 'p's. His body reminding him of another, he heads for the restroom.

Washing his hands, he studies his reflection. With a flash of vanity, he acknowledges that he does scrub up well even though his face is already dusted with stubble and his suit feels like an alien skin. But the stubble is ever present, noticeable within an hour of shaving and he will soon acclimatize to wearing a suit again. Will have to; it's a symbol of his status, his achievement, the badge of honour to be worn here amongst the elite. He indulges in a little ego stroking as he dries his hands then thinks of the paperwork and summons up another 'p' – procrastination. He heads out of the restroom to hunt down some coffee.

"Ah! Detective Robert Goren, meet Detective Alexandra Eames."

He had strutted back into the squad room, bolstered by his self assessment, hot coffee burning his fingers through the paper cup. Had arrived back at his desk at the same time as the Captain and ... his partner.

And now he is aware he is looming over her, still puffed up by pride. The wary look in her eyes tells him that she has fore knowledge, has been briefed about him. There is an unbearable moment of tension, his surprise meeting her suspicion, and he searches for a way to defuse it. Inspiration strikes.

"Bobby...uh... call me Bobby."

He deliberately fumbles the transfer of the cup from right to left hand as he reaches out to shake hers. Coffee explodes across the floor, splashing the legs of his pants and he crouches down, handkerchief ready for the mop up.

"Aw Christ, Goren! I'll get janitor services."

Deakins marches back to his office, carefully sidestepping the stray splashes. Bobby looks up hesitantly, using his position of disadvantage to check out her small athletic body clad in a dark professional pants suit, his coy glance meeting a small smile of wry amusement and hazel eyes reassessing.

She pulls out her own hankie, dabbing at a couple of spots on her legs and squats beside him, handkerchief proffered.

"Nice move, but it needs some work. And to you, I'm Eames."

Busted! He ducks his head, hiding cheeks flushing with embarrassment. At the sound of her heels tapping away, he dares to look at her again.

Catches her wink, and the barely suppressed grin.

As he continues his ineffectual mopping, he wonders how Lewis is with lottery numbers...


	3. Saliva

"I'm not doing it."

She stares back at him, shocked. Shocked and bemused. She can't understand his sudden dissent. After all, it was not something he had never done before; in fact, it was something he usually relished.

"But, Bobby, this is how it works, how we do this..."

They are in the observation room, taking a break and planning strategy while the suspect talks to his lawyer. At least that's what she thought they'd been doing until Bobby's flat refusal.

"You know, I play the straight man, lay out the facts. You get all psychological, turn on the empathy then get in his face. I know you've already figured..."

"No."

The short sharp word is like a slap to her face. Now she is really bothered.

She searches her memories for clues to explain his behaviour. It is not fear; he has talked down an armed gunman holding children hostage protected only by his vest and his wits. And it is not just physical courage; he had exposed his vulnerability to Nicole and had not shied away. Nor is it intimidation; this suspect has neither power nor influence, neither money nor physical presence. Not that any of those things had ever stopped her partner before; he usually delighted in bringing the mighty down.

"I don't get it. Tell me."

She knows she sounds a little shrill, but she is frustrated. Time and time again they had done this dance and he had never balked, never backed off. She watches as he studies the scene in the interrogation room, the silent pantomime between suspect and lawyer and sees him shudder.

So what was that all about?

Something about this guy had disgusted him and she still doesn't get it. He's suspected of murder, sure, but it wasn't particularly grisly. She thinks about the times she has seen him particularly affected and none seem to apply; no children, no irresponsible father, no abuse of power, no mental health issues. In fact, it is all rather banal.

She moves to stand alongside him, trying to see what he sees and just as revelation strikes her, the lawyer leaves the room. She turns to Bobby, about to share her insight but is interrupted by Deakins barging in.

"He's ready to talk, step into him."

Panic flares briefly in Bobby's eyes, replaced by resignation and they head off to do their thing.

Understanding now his problem, she takes the lead. Talking through the case, lining up the evidence piece by piece on the table but is met with a wall of silence.

"I thought you were ready to talk."

The lawyer opens his mouth but before he can reply, her partner chimes in.

"He is, but not about this, right?"

She watches Bobby capture the suspect's gaze with that peculiar but effective move of his. Realises that the challenge, professional pride, intellectual curiosity and sheer bloody mindedness have overcome his revulsion.

Watches as Bobby speaks. His monologue, soft at first but becoming louder, harsher, until he is out of his chair, leaning across the table, getting right in the suspect's face.

Watches as, at last, the suspect breaks down, spluttering out his retort, his reasons, spittle flying. Bobby flinches against the spray but she is ready. She slides the folded triangle of white cotton across the table and picks up where her partner has left off.

His look of earnest gratitude is heart melting, and it seems strangely satisfying to know her corpse sniffing, wound poking partner is squeamish about something after all...


	4. Vomit

"What the ...!"

The rest of his sentence is drowned out by horns blaring. The contents of his binder slide off his knees as the SUV veers across two lanes of heavy New York traffic, coming to rest at an angle, partly on the sidewalk. Eames bails, heading full tilt for the alley, leaving the door open, the engine running and a mechanical pinging as a prompt that this was really happening.

Bobby sits, frozen in astonishment at this sudden departure from the norm. Gradually the annoying 'ping' brings him out of his stupor and he reaches across to switch off the engine. From this new angle, he can see Eames and he realises she is bent over being very sick.

Gathering together his fallen papers, his mind puzzles on this observation. His first thought is 'hangover'. But they hadn't finished work until after one and that seemed a little late to start a bender that would have such dramatic consequences. Anyway, she hadn't smelt of alcohol, just her usual clean scent of soap and shampoo.

Perhaps food poisoning? He thinks back to the takeaway ordered last night as they had waded their way through the mountain of correspondence, evidence in their latest case. But they had companionably shared the contents of the waxed cardboard cartons and he felt fine this morning.

OK, the breakfast Danish had been a little stale, but she had barely picked at hers. He realises, belatedly, that he is here lost in thought, while she is out there, retching. He picks up a bottle of water and hunts his pockets for a handkerchief. Suitably armed with placatory offerings, he goes after her.

She looks up as he casts a shadow over her, her face pale with an unhealthy sheen. He proffers his gifts and receives a weak smile in return.

"It's not what you think," she warns, after rinsing her mouth and wiping her face.

"I'm not thinking..."

She cuts him off with a harsh laugh.

"Come on, Bobby, it's all you do. And to cut short a morning of silence and you being zoned out while you try and figure this out – I'm pregnant, it's morning sickness." And as if to prove the point, she bends over, retching again.

His mind reels from this latest surprise; first the terrifying parking manoeuvre, then the sight of her being sick and now... pregnant? He's not sure which disturbs him most. Floundering, mind still not fully comprehending, he asks;

"How..?" and realises that is probably the dumbest question ever.

"Actually, that's not such a stupid question." Obviously mind- reading is a skill that develops with pregnancy, or she just knows him too well... "It's a bit of a story."

She stretches, taking a deep breath, the colour returning to her face.

"Find me a diner that serves ginger tea and dry crackers and I'll fill you in."

They turn back towards the SUV, its rear jutting out into the traffic and as if still reading his thoughts she says;

"I'm still driving."

Thinking ahead to weeks of morning sickness and still shaking a little from its impact this morning; the look of mock terror he throws her isn't entirely in jest.


	5. Blood

His knee hits the curb with a thud and the hand he had put out instinctively, scrapes across the asphalt. Pain flares and it is the last straw; finally he gives voice to the anger, the frustration that has been building for weeks.

"Fucking stupid bitch!"

This outburst is the culmination of weeks without Eames; first on light duties, then on maternity leave. Weeks with Bishop; who is always in the wrong place, always doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing.

Just like today, when he had turned to gesture expansively with his binder and realised she was right there in its path. In an effort to avoid hitting her full bore, he had twisted, wrong footing himself and had landed here, much to his chagrin, sprawled on a New York City sidewalk.

Gathering his wits, his dignity and his binder, he awkwardly hauls himself upright, trying to avoid putting his weight on the damaged knee. The anger has dissipated with his outburst and he feels achy, weary and a little spent as he leans on the hood of a parked car. Finally he looks at Bishop, and the shame at his spiteful words deepens as he sees consternation and fear in her eyes.

"Th...that was wrong of me. I shouldn't have..."

He suddenly realises it was not just Bishop he was angry at, it was Eames. Angry that she is not here, has left him like this, angry that she is risking everything, risking this...

"You're worried about her."

A simple statement of truth and at last he acknowledges the fear that has been fuelling his frustration; how powerless he is. He had read all the books, couldn't help himself, but the knowledge only increased his feelings of impotence. Hmm, impotence; a sexually charged word bringing forth irrational jealousy, a basic primal urge screaming 'that baby should be _mine_...'

"You're dripping."

He blinks dumbfounded at Bishop, and she points to his hand. Looking down, he sees bright splashes of blood staining his pants and begins a frantic one- handed search for something to stem the flow, before realising she has already beaten him to it.

He looks at the scrap of fabric edged with lace, looks at the size of his hand, looks at her. Similar thoughts of incongruity, absurdity flash across their minds and they both burst into laughter. Finally he locates his far more substantial version, and waves it with a flourish, prompting a further round of laughs.

"Here, let me."

As he watches her efficiently brush stray pieces of grit from the wound (and manfully tries not to wince) he finally understands. She is Detective Bishop and she has always been in the right place – her place, doing things in her own way. _He_ was wrong, was too caught up in his feelings, blinded by anger and fear and...

He does a mental head slap as the penny drops.

Unable to contain the sappy grin spreading across his face, he looks at Bishop and realises she knows, perhaps had always known.

"I'll bring the car around."

He nods his agreement and his thanks, and waits, hugging his binder tight to his chest.

The onset of drizzle, his ruined suit, the pain in his knee and his sore palm, his anxiety and fear for her welfare, her absence; they are all eclipsed by the knowledge that there is something he can do for Eames.

He can love her.

After all, he already does.


	6. Juice

It was a face off.

They stare, eyes locked, across the smooth, cool table. Usually he is prepared, his much vaulted ability to read people giving him the edge, some insight. But this opponent is a cipher. The face is blank, expressionless and even the blink rate is well down. No obvious tells.

He is at a loss. He has only limited background information, and from the available data he can't find a way in, a way to break through. But he's never been one to back down; in fact he can feel his mind kicking into gear, excited by this challenge.

Sitting back, he takes stock of the small figure opposite him and searches his memory for relevant situations to give him inspiration. Instead, he finds himself distracted by a brief flicker of annoyance at Alex for being in this situation.

Yes, Alex! Using her first name is still a thrill, a wonderful sign of how their relationship has moved from the professional to the personal. Very personal; he remembers hesitant approaches, cautious acceptance, that first exhilarating night...

A loud bang jerks him out of his reverie. Guiltily, he packs away such intimate thoughts, conscious that they are inappropriate here in the diner with Alex's nephew strapped in the high chair opposite. The blank expression has been replaced by a toothy grin, and the sippy cup slams down on the Formica again, its poorly fastened lid slopping juice.

Well, this is at least a practical thing he can do. But, as he wipes the rim and tightens the lid, he knows more is needed. The banging and the grinning are obvious demands for attention but he is still struggling with the puzzle of how to fill the need.

He feels suddenly tense with the pressure, the expectation, knows how important this is to Alex, that this is her _special_ nephew. He can see her through the large window, chatting to an old colleague from Vice and regrets his blasé insistence that she go and catch up with the gossip.

The sippy cup smacks down again and he toys with the idea of joining in, using mimicry to establish rapport. But that would only lead to more mess and annoy the other customers. The mental picture of a little and large pair of cup bashers, the resulting din a Morse code of primitive communication, makes him smile and he is gratified to get a grin in return.

Well, that's a start.

He hadn't realised how much he relied on words, to the extent of being familiar with several languages so he would never be at a loss to communicate. But 'babble' was not one of them. He makes a mental note to add child development and nursery rhymes to his reading list and thinks of other times when he had to deal with children. The magic tricks had always been effective, but he'd never tried it out on one so young.

As he pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, he is inspired by a long forgotten childhood memory. He holds the white cotton square in front of his face, waits a second, lets it drop.

"Peekaboo!"


	7. Saline

The smell of disinfectant, the hushed conversations and bleeping monitors all provoke bittersweet associations with hospitals.

Bittersweet; that agonising last day as the life ebbed from Joe, the time spent hypnotised by the relentless drip of saline, the mechanical breaths of the ventilator and the guilt laden relief when at last it was over.

Bittersweet; that precious, private moment when, after hours of labour, she had said goodbye to her son and hello to her nephew.

Bittersweet; the nightmares that tormented her sleep following her kidnapping, panicked awakenings and Bobby's constant calming presence; every "sshh" and gentle touch a demonstration of his love.

Bittersweet; the priceless honour of being trusted, valued enough to be introduced to his mother and the awful realisation that they do not like each other, that the only thing they have in common is Bobby.

But she always goes with him, because he needs her and she loves him.

Some days it is bad. She waits in the background, overwhelmed at his tenderness, his patience with his mother as delusions ravage her mind, as pain ravages her body. Waits until at last he comes to her, clings to her and finally she can feel useful.

Other days, Frances is better. Clear minded and pain minimised, and in some ways Alex dreads those days more. Because those are the days that she is left feeling inferior as mother and son indulge in their favourite sport; the battle of words. Often it takes the form of a free ranging lively debate and she watches, awestruck but alienated, as they leap effortlessly from topic to topic, drawing on obscure references and trying to outdo each other with clever associations. And even if she tries to join in, there's the annoying way they have of picking up the threads of earlier discussions, the shared lifetime love of language a verbal shortcut.

No, in this sport she was reduced to being a mere spectator. Which does leave her free to indulge in her favourite pastime – Bobby watching. Every gesture of those long fingers, every silent utterance in those expressive brown eyes, every variation of that gorgeous smile...

She sighs.

Today is one of the "good" days. Unfortunately the debate has been shelved, instead the war of words is being played out on the battlefield of the Scrabble board and she has been enlisted. She gives herself a strong warning to never, ever play Scrabble again with a former librarian and man who considers his library card a prize possession. The game is constantly interrupted as the validity of a word is challenged and the well- worn dictionary is consulted yet again.

Most of the challenges are coming her way, particularly from Frances, as she tries to counter the joint Goren onslaught of obscure words with some particularly pithy slang. After all, she had spent several years in Vice...Still, while they are nose deep in the dictionary, she can return to Bobby- watching. Today's fascination is with his arms, long and strong but not muscle bound, nicely defined by the cut of his jacket and...

"Hey, what's that up your sleeve?"

She tugs at the white corner protruding from his cuff, unfurling the fabric and exposing the surreptitiously concealed tiles.

"Bobby!"

A shared expression of outrage, and at last she and Frances are on the same page.


	8. Sweat

The heat is searing, scorching his skin, burning him up.

Beads of moisture decorate his brow, swell then run in rivulets down his face to gather in the three day growth of his beard. Sweat darkens his greying curls, flattens them to his scalp, soaks his pillow. His clammy undershirt clings and the damp sheets twist about his legs as he tosses and turns in a desperate attempt to find some relief. He is sodden, but it is no comfort, does not lessen the blistering torment.

He has descended to the seventh circle of Hell, is immersed in the river of boiling blood and fire, his mind wracked with tortured visions of Inferno. His eyes are full of grit and feel too large for their sockets and his throat is raw as if he has been screaming for hours.

He moans, the sound creating piercing reverberations in his head, a demonic counterpoint to the hollow nauseating thud already well established there. His skull continues its vice-like grip on his brain as the rays of pale sunlight cauterize his retinas.

"So how are we this morning?"

Her tone is bright and breezy, her smile sunny and wide, her clothes crisp and fresh and in that moment he hates her.

"We... are dying."

He had intended his reply to be cutting, caustic but instead it comes out as a feeble croak.

"Don't be such a drama queen, Bobby, it's just the flu."

He tries to pull the facts and figures together, the necessary data to demonstrate just how lethal influenza could be, but his head is woolly and the thoughts will not coalesce. Instead he lies there, mute with misery, watching her brisk efficient movements as she restocks his nightstand.

"Back in a minute!"

She bustles out, and as much as he had resented her cheerful intrusion, he resents her leaving more.

Christ, when had he got so needy? When he had realised the depth, the breadth of his feelings for her, when he had to keep looking, touching to reassure himself that she was real, was _his_. When that niggling element of doubt had crept in that maybe her feelings for him were not as strong. She was just so...self- contained.

A prickly sensation starts at the back of his nose, scratchy itch, pressure building and he grabs for yet another hankie just as the sneeze wetly explodes. Wiping his nose, he sinks back onto the bed, exhausted by this simple action. Another wipe and he pauses, looks at the nightstand and finally gets it.

It's there, right in front of him: the proof, the reassurance he had been seeking. It was there in every sip of honeyed tea, in every spoonful of chicken broth, in every freshly laundered handkerchief, in every stroke of a cool wet washcloth... And it had always been there, just as she had been, every time he needed to look, to touch. He expressed himself in words, gestures but she spoke just as loudly with her deeds, her acts. He'd just been a little slow to get the message.

She returns, waving a blister pack of some drug store panacea.

He smiles, recognising yet another sign of love and realises that, actually, he was feeling better...


	9. Semen

It was their secret place.

Well, in truth, probably not. She's sure others had discovered the corner of the back stairwell of the parking garage, seldom used and free from video surveillance. But it felt like theirs, their sanctuary.

A secret place to indulge, share, express their other secret...

Because at work they maintained a strictly partner- like attitude; neither willing to undermine their professional reputations nor to sully something so special, so precious with all the crap they dealt with on a daily basis.

But they worked long hours.

Sometimes, the horror and the hatred, the dysfunction and the devastation they encountered would become too much and they would flee here to seek solace. Sometimes she would hug him fiercely, holding him tight, desperately needing his strength as the storm of twisted human nature whirled around them. Sometimes she would just gently touch, feeling the scrape of stubble and his warm skin, drinking in the tenderness from chestnut eyes and would marvel at this perfect antidote to all the poison in the world.

Other times were different.

Hell, they were both old enough to know better, to know the freedom and the comfort of king size beds and cool cotton sheets, the privacy of their own personal space. But sometime lust hit; hit hard and fast, passion stoked by his rebelliousness and her mischief and the sheer exhilaration of just how fucking good it felt and the frenetic, frantic result was a celebration. Sometimes it was the long slow burn; fuelled by the quiver of his long lashes, the flex of a muscle, the trace of his scent, a thousand other sensory fragments and these encounters were more like a promise of later delights...

Today, she'd been unable to resist.

Watching him pace around the interrogation room, full of power and fury, he'd been on magnificent form. But there had been an edge of arrogance and she had felt a sudden wicked urge to bring him to his knees and a lewd idea of just how she'd like to do it.

And so she had mounted a morning campaign of innuendo, of innocuous actions laced with suggestion and had taken great delight in watching him blush, and squirm and strategically shift his binder until at last, under the pretext of going for lunch, he had practically hauled her into the stairwell. Until at last she could make good on all her hints and subtle suggestions using her hands, her mouth, her lips, her tongue. Until at last, although she was the one on her knees, he was the one who had broken.

She watches now as he gently wipes away the evidence, the soft fabric of his handkerchief seductively stroking her palm, her cheek, her mouth; his lips following its trail with soft kisses. She feels him pause, their lips barely touching, hears him inhale deeply, sees his eyes close and she knows he is savouring the scent of him on her skin.

Abruptly, he steps back and she looks up to see a devilish glint in his eye coupled with a rakish grin.

"Your turn!"

It's a threat, and a challenge, and a promise and she knows she's in for one hell of an afternoon...


	10. Tears

It was over.

She looks at the phone, looks at the badge and the gun lined up on the desk and suddenly this empty goldfish bowl of an office feels claustrophobic. Outside in the squad room the daily business is continuing as normal, unaware of the sea change that has just occurred. And although no one is paying her any attention, she feels exposed. Feels as though a thousand eyes are turned on her in censure, judgment, or even worse, approval.

Finally the pressure is too much and she bolts.

Here, at least, it is calm and quiet and free from prying eyes. She has taken refuge in the restroom, in the farthest stall from the door. And now is sitting, locked in her own porcelain white cell of condemnation trying desperately to come to terms with what she has done.

The tears once again prick her eyes and she reaches for her hankie. Her heart clenches as she sees the small embroidered 'B' in the corner identifying it as one of a set she had given him. A simple laundry mix up but a potent symbol of how intertwined their lives had become, both professionally and personally...

And she had now sliced it apart.

It had been an impossible situation; it felt like a doctor having to choose between letting a prima ballerina die or amputating her legs. At that thought, the storm breaks; she buries her face in his soft cotton and sobs out her misery and her guilt.

Gradually the harsh gulps and the shoulder heaves abate, giving way to leaking tears and the occasionally hitching breath. And gradually Alex the realist, Alex the pragmatist, re emerges.

After all, change is inevitable, for better or worse.

She straightens her back, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. One last wipe of her eyes, a final blow of her nose and she resolutely tucks the hankie away. Now she is all brisk efficiency, splashing water on her face, tidying her hair, straightening her jacket.

She returns to the squad room, to her desk, tidies the papers away, gathers her jacket and her bag. She falters momentarily as she looks at his empty chair, looks at his desk, strangely naked without the leather binder, looks at the reference books neatly shelved...

She knows she should go to him, or at least call him, but she feels too raw, too fragile to face him yet. Instead she goes where everyone goes when the world suddenly seems like a strange and scary place; she goes home.

And there, sitting on her steps, is Bobby.

She watches his face light up as she approaches and a swell of love washes away the last traces of guilt.

"I said I'd see ya around."

"Yes, you did but..." She still feels reluctant to meet his eyes.

"Alex?"

His hand cups her chin, lifting her head and at last she dares to look, sees his compassion, his understanding. His expression changes to one of quiet amusement.

"The best, huh... Best at what, exactly?"

His outrageously saucy wink rips a burst of laughter from her lips, bringing with it hope and optimism.

It was not over.


	11. Sauce

A flash of white catches her eye, and she looks over to see Bobby flourishing his handkerchief. From the cheers and claps of his adoring young audience it is obviously the finale to one of his many magic tricks. She sees the laughter, and watches Bobby stand, scoop up one of the boys and swing him round onto his back. She can't help but smile at the ensuing piggyback chase.

"He's so good with the kids."

Alex agrees with her sister but her words prompt a moment of sadness. She knows her sister thinks that Bobby's ease is due to a childhood filled with family, friends and laughter.

Days like these, in fact.

They are at one of the many Eames family gatherings; the unexpected warm spell of sunshine prompting Sunday dinner to be turned into a barbecue and for once, she and Bobby did not have a case.

And as usual, he had shunned the adults and made a beeline for the youngsters, just as they flocked to him. She knows this endears him to her family and troubles them, but it is not her place to reveal his secrets. He had confided in her: revealing that with the adults he was constantly "reading" them, could not turn off his analytical skills, and was always looking for the subtext. But with the children, he could relax. She suspects that it runs a lot deeper than that. That through these playful moments, he could experience the childhood he never had...

Bobby is now lost to view, buried under a mountain of giggling children and she tears her eyes away. Her sister's yard is filled with people, clustered in small groups or cosy pairs and she knows this is another reason for Bobby's avoidance. Everywhere there are touches, gestures, public displays of affection and devotion and this was a constant source of frustration for him.

Because this was something she denied him.

In private, it was different. From resting her feet on his under the breakfast table to resting her head in his lap as they shared quiet reading times at the end of the day; there was barely a moment when they weren't connected in some way.

But not in public.

She cited reasons of years of professional discretion, of wanting this to be something just between them. But her deep down irrational fear was that as soon as it was public, exposed to the world, then he would be torn from her, just as Joe had been.

She's distracted from her thoughts by Bobby's panting arrival, his cheeks flushed, and eyes shining.

"Got one of those for me?"

She passes him the spare hot dog, slathered in her brother in law's special homemade sauce, watches him greedily take a bite. Watches the sauce smear on his lips, watches him reach for a napkin and thinks;

"Oh, what the hell!"

She interrupts his movement, grabs his neck and pulls him down for a wonderfully sloppy sauce-flavoured kiss.

She is oblivious to the woops and cheers of delight around them, as he picks her up and swings her around, never once breaking the kiss.

This is very public but it is also something very special, just between them.


	12. Champagne

Dinner and dancing.

A perfect way to celebrate a return to Major Case, a return to partnership, a return to where it had all begun.

He had chosen a small family-run place; good food served with friendly smiles, the jazz quartet playing with skill and enthusiasm, candlelight and checked tablecloths. She had even talked him out of ordering his usual heavy red wine, had persuaded him to splash out. The champagne, light and sparkly, suited the conversation, suited her mood.

And she is still feeling all bubbly, as he holds her close, as he guides her around the dance floor with surprising grace. She can feel the warmth of his hand in the small of her back, his breath in her hair, the smooth cotton of his shirt against her cheek. She looks up at him and for once, he is silent; the expression in his eyes far more eloquent than mere words.

Hearts, minds and bodies in harmony; they dance.

It is like every step is taking them further and further away from all the trials and traumas of recent years, every beat of his heart measuring out a future of hope and happiness.

The song comes to an end, they still and she feels like she is poised in a perfect moment...She wishes that time would stop, that someone would hit the pause button so they could stay like this forever.

The music resumes, a more upbeat tempo, and by mutual, silent agreement, they return to their table. She feels a little bereft at the loss of the safe harbour of his arms around her, at the loss of the shelter of his body, her shield, her source of strength.

"I've got something for ya."

This is not a surprise. He is often giving her things, little "treasures" he has discovered during the day. An unusual coin found in the street, a colourful leaf that blew into his path. Each comes with a tale or a titbit of trivia and she saves them all in a special bowl beside their bed.

Her favourite is the dark lumpy pebble that transforms when wet, turning translucent and glittery; his comment had been about finding beauty in the ugliest of things if you knew how to look. It had been a small tangible thing to clutch when things had got really bad.

She shakes off the thought, an unwelcome intrusion, and looks down at his latest offering.

His handkerchief, the corners knotted together to form a little parcel. She pulls them apart, the fabric softly unfolding. Sees the brilliant diamond flash, the band of warm gold glow...

"It..uh, it was my mother's."

Tears well as her eyes meet his in acceptance. She had been wrong.

This was the perfect moment.

_A/N_

_Thank you for taking the time to read and review – your kind words of support and encouragement are great motivators!_

_All the usual disclaimers apply – LO:CI is not mine, never will be but there's nothing wrong with dreams..._


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